


The Danger is I'm Dangerous

by nascentgalaxies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, First Time, Genderswap, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nascentgalaxies/pseuds/nascentgalaxies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her main problem is that danger always seems to find her. No matter what. Even if the danger never bit her and changed her like it did Scott, she is still changed, and she is still always, always in danger. She is aware of her own fragile humanity, thank you very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Danger is I'm Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I wrote genderswap lesbian fic of Derek and Stiles. Derek's name is still Derek because there is no feminine version of Derek that doesn't sound ridiculous, and imo gendered names are dumb anyway. 
> 
> also what is plot I don't even know

Stiles has a problem. Well, actually, Stiles has many problems, and that’s if you leave out the werewolves, the guilt of having led Scott out into the woods to be bitten by one in the first place, and the whole Kanima debacle, and then the _other_ debacle with the Alpha pack.

Her main problem is that danger always seems to find her. No matter what. Even if the danger never bit her and changed her like it did Scott, she is still changed, and she is still always, always in danger. She is aware of her own fragile humanity, thank you very much. Life seems more than happy to remind her. All the supernatural creatures out there take pleasure in reminding her, too, be it through stalking her, or threatening her, or shoving her up against walls.

She’s sitting at her desk late on a Friday night, dicking around on Youtube watching videos of puppies. She needs the internet sometimes, for her own peace of mind, to let herself know that the world hasn’t ended—that there are people out there who can find the time to take stupid videos of pugs. Not everyone’s life is full of blood and danger and too many sleepless nights.

But hers are. That’s why she’s pretty damn impressed with herself when she only flails a _little bit_ at the sudden, heavy thump on the floor behind her. She spins in her chair, weakly karate chopping the air—and of course it’s Derek. Of course it is. She will deny the yelp that escaped her mouth at the sight of her. It’s not like Derek is at all intimidating, with her ever-present frown and perfect body and perfect hair and perfect everything. Perfect except for her inability to communicate with people by normal means, such as cellphones.

“You know, I have a phone,” she says, for probably the umpteenth time since they’ve met, “and I know for a _fact_ that youcrawled out of the Stone Age at some point and got yourself one. I’ve seen it. Why don’t you use it?”

Derek looms over Stiles, framed by the windowsill and the yellow light of the streetlight outside. She favours Stiles with one of her famous Derek Hale Frowns of Disapproval. Shaking her head, she shrugs out of her leather jacket and tosses it onto Stiles’s bed like it belongs there.

It’s not a new occurrence, for Derek to crawl through Stiles’s window at strange hours of the night. Whether it’s to annoy Stiles with her brooding presence by reading one of her books, or, more likely, to pester Stiles into researching something about Beacon Hills’ Monster of the Week, Derek has nonetheless become something of a permanent fixture in Stiles’s life. In Stiles’s bedroom. Which is… confusing.

Stiles attracts danger. She knows that. After knowing Derek for over a year, common sense should, by now, have decoded Derek’s name into ‘danger’. And yet, here Stiles is, trying not to be too blatant with her appreciation for the way Derek’s grey tank top clings in all the right places, the way her hair shines, dark and thick in the dim lamplight. Even Derek’s frown is somehow beautiful.

Sometimes Stiles tries to make her smile. It’s so rare that whenever she does crack one, it’s blinding. That scares Stiles more than anything. That’s what’s so dangerous about Derek. Stiles felt the same for Lydia, once, and Danny, for a little while, but both of them were unattainable, out of her league. If _they_ were unattainable then she doesn’t even know what Derek is. Derek is something lethal. She’s something Stiles can’t stop staring at, when Derek’s eyes are elsewhere. It’s like watching a car crash.

She doesn’t know when it happened. She thinks it happened somewhere between Derek rescuing her from Matt at the police station and Derek rescuing her from the Alpha twins. She’s lost count of how many times Derek has saved her life.

“Sooo…” Stiles watches as Derek takes a step closer to her, frowning, as per usual, clenching her jaw as though she’s about to enter a fight she’s certain to lose. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? Do you want to take out another book from the Stilinski Library? I just got the new John Green book, if you’re interested.”   

“What?” Stiles receives Derek’s perplexed, oddly condescending eyebrow-raise. But she’s seen Derek reading _Paper Towns._ She knows she read the whole thing in one night. “No.”

When an answer doesn’t seem to be forthcoming, and Derek doesn’t move except to clench her fists, Stiles can feel her heart begin to race, her throat tightening. She swallows. Derek’s gaze flickers briefly towards her throat.

“So—” Stiles says, again.

“You’re pack,” says Derek, and Stiles almost jumps at the sudden sharpness of Derek’s voice in the quiet room.

“Yeah, I know. Why?” Scott had finally stopped denying his place in Derek’s pack after the Alpha pack had pitted the two of them against each other. It is not brand new information. Stiles can’t fathom why Derek feels the need to bring it up now.

“Our enemies don’t,” she says, as though it should be obvious. “You’re not a wolf like us, Stiles. They can’t tell by smelling you that you’re one of us.”

Derek is pacing, now, as though this is a subject that disturbs her. Stiles should be the disturbed one. She’s not sure if she preferred the penetrating stare to the pacing, to be honest, but either way, her heart insists on thumping, hard, against her ribcage. For a werewolf it’s probably like listening to a drum solo. Stiles has to make a conscious effort to breathe in and out through her nose to settle herself down, because for fuck’s sake, _it’s just Derek._ She’s always this intense and forceful and ridiculous with how serious she tries to be.

But the Alpha pack is still fresh in all their minds. Some of the wounds they left on Stiles haven’t even begun to scar. She can tell those scars are on Derek’s mind, too. Maybe the freak can smell them. They had taken Stiles from her room one night to get to Scott. And maybe, if Stiles had smelled more like _pack_ and less like _vulnerable human_ they might have thought twice about it. Stiles can’t know for sure, since the Alpha pack is either miles away or dead, now. Smelling of Derek’s pack wouldn’t have helped with Gerard at all.

Stiles is curious, mostly, because Derek looks so _distraught_. About Stiles’s _smell_ , of all things.

“The wolves are attracted to my stench, Derek. I don’t think smelling like one of them will help.” Stiles shrugs. “It might just further encourage them to hump my leg.”

“It will work,” Derek insists, finally sitting down on the edge of Stiles’s bed. “If another pack enters this territory – my territory – they’ll know you’re part of my pack. If they’re smart they’ll leave you alone.”

“But the Alphas—”

“Weren’t smart.”

“Touché. So, like, I’m guessing there’s some magical way to make me smell less Stiles-y? Unless you have to—what? Pee on me?”

Derek’s lip twitches, halfway towards a smile, and Stiles’s stomach drops like she missed a step on the stairs.

“No, you idiot. We have—scent glands.”

“Oh.” Stiles isn’t sure she likes where this is going. “Uh—where?”

“Fingers, toes, back, and… and the face.”

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles says, slowly. “Basically, what you're saying is, is that you need to nuzzle me. Like a cat. To keep me out of danger.”

Derek’s face is blank, a slight grimace twisting her mouth, as though she would rather eat dirt than talk to Stiles about nuzzling and the location of her wolfy private parts. Stiles lets loose a long-suffering sigh.

“Oh my god, okay, fine, if you _must_. Nuzzle away!” Her voice squeaks, and Stiles cringes. “But if Scott makes fun of me for smelling even worse than usual I’m gonna have to punch you in the face.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up, her lips parting slightly, as though she had fully expected Stiles to refuse. Derek’s eyes are bright, her face more open than Stiles has seen it since they met. But then Derek’s face flattens out, masked by the frown again, like she's steeling herself as she gets to her feet. Stiles peels off her blue plaid button-up and tries to keep her hands from shaking too noticeably.

“I’m only doing this because I don’t want any more Alphas breaking into my room and going through my stuff, okay?” Stiles says, lamely. She sounds a little breathless even to her own ears, especially when Derek’s hand comes up to rest on her neck and stays there. Derek snorts at the comment as she leans in and rubs her cheek against the top of Stiles’s head. Derek’s other hand finds its way to Stiles’s upper arm, rubbing small circles into the skin below her sleeve.

“I’ll go through your stuff if I want to,” she says.

“Ha, you’re _so_ funny.”

Stiles is immediately hyperaware of her body, of how awkward it is, sitting there, legs together, arms hanging limp off to the sides. She wants to touch Derek back, but she doesn’t dare. Derek is doing this for Stiles’s well being. It’s not sexual, she tells herself, repeatedly, as Derek’s cheek grazes Stiles’s cheek, her breath tickling her ear.

Derek runs her fingertips over Stiles’s hair, pulling it out of the messy ponytail Stiles had tied it into to keep it out of the way. Every minute tug of her hair sends tingling, anxious sparks straight between Stiles’s legs. The breath against her ear doesn’t help much with her situation, either. She presses her knees together and prays that Derek can’t smell her growing arousal from where Derek’s nuzzling her way towards Stiles’s right earlobe.

“This is awkward,” Stiles mutters, in the hopes of drawing some of the tension out of her bones. But, somehow, it’s like they’ve switched places, because Derek isn’t tense at all anymore. She actually _laughs_ against the side of Stiles’s neck, her lips brushing the tender skin there. Stiles feels the laugh as a low throb. She can’t bring herself to tell Derek to stop. Not even when Derek gets down on her knees to nestle in closer, her fingers, maddeningly, stroking the skin beneath Stiles’s sleeve and inching higher.

Derek’s lips are dragging down the edge of Stiles’s neck, lighting Stiles up so every part of her is sensitive to the barest of touch. It isn’t just nuzzling anymore. Stiles doesn’t know _what_ it is anymore. Derek’s hands have moved to bracket Stiles’s waist, gingerly working their way up the bottom of her t-shirt. Her breath comes out harsher than intended at the feel of Derek’s fingers on her midriff, and that’s, of course, when Derek chooses to open her mouth against Stiles’s skin. She laps at the hollow of Stiles’s collarbone with her tongue and this time something resembling a whimper escapes Stiles’s lips.

She notices, hazily, that Derek’s breath is coming out faster, puffing hotly against the wetness her tongue leaves. And Stiles can’t take it any more. She grabs hold of Derek’s arms but doesn’t push them away, just holds onto them until Derek stops kissing and nipping and sucking at her skin. She gives Stiles a questioning look from mere inches away.

“Your mouth, too?” is all she can get out.

“My mouth, too,” Derek agrees, and Stiles wants to kiss her, so bad it hurts, but Derek is taking Stiles’s right hand from her forearm and kissing the pale, fragile skin inside her wrist. And licking it. And Stiles still doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch Derek back, so she lets Derek touch her instead, and her left hand drops uselessly to her knee.

Derek abandons Stiles’s right hand in favour of gripping Stiles’s left one and sucking Stiles’s fingertips, one at a time, into her mouth. Derek’s eyes are heavy-lidded, and when she glances up at Stiles, the pupils are blown. Her stare is dark and weighty, almost determined.

“Is it just me or does this behaviour strike you as a little more than platonic?”

Derek’s lips curve around Stiles’s ring finger. She pulls off with a small _pop_.

“Really, Stiles?”

“No, I’m serious. This isn’t just about me being in your pack.”

Derek doesn’t speak for a moment, her fingers digging into the material of Stiles’s pajama pants in a very distracting way. Stiles needs them to be much higher.

“No, it isn’t,” Derek says. “I won’t let _anyone_ have you.” 

“Does that mean kissing can happen?” Stiles asks, too exuberantly. “And—and sex?”

Derek answers by straightening up on her knees and kissing Stiles, open-mouthed and merciless. The angle is weird, with Derek kneeling beside Stiles’s tightly closed legs. Stiles fixes the problem by turning her swivel chair towards Derek and wrapping her legs around her, pulling her closer, kissing her deeper. Stiles finally gets to touch Derek’s body, arms around her waist and a hand halfway up the back of her tank top. Stiles’s hand up Derek’s shirt seems to inspire the idea for Derek to tear off Stiles’s t-shirt, which Stiles only gets trapped in for a moment before they’re kissing again. 

Derek’s hands find Stiles’s breasts immediately, thumbs rubbing her nipples through her bra. Stiles moans against Derek’s mouth. With a sharp inhale through her nose, as though Stiles’s reactions have vexed her, Derek shoves in closer. Stiles can’t get a proper breath in, her skin flushed and her chest heaving. She feels like she’s drowning when Derek kisses her way down Stiles’s chest, nipping, undoubtedly leaving marks, until she’s kneeling between Stiles’s legs again, stroking long fingers down her thighs and following them with kisses. Stiles bucks up towards her. She wants to be closer to the precious heat of Derek’s mouth, and it’s both too close and too far away.

“Please,” Stiles gasps, grabbing at handfuls of Derek’s grey tank top. Derek smirks into the inside of Stiles’s thigh and _bites her_ , the asshole.

Before Stiles can complain, Derek obliges her, nudging open Stiles’s thighs with her jaw, probably rubbing more of her scent onto Stiles. Not that Stiles really cares about that anymore. Because Derek Hale is between her legs, nuzzling into the wet heat of her cunt through her pajama pants. Stiles swears so loud she’s grateful her dad isn’t home. It’s the first time anyone else has touched her there, and to have Derek’s mouth on her first, it’s—too much. She gropes at thin air before snagging Derek by the hair, tugging at fistfuls of it so Derek groans against her. The vibration is enough to make her sob. 

Derek kisses at the fabric of Stiles’s pants, down the seam, nibbling it and mouthing at it until Stiles isn’t sure if it’s wet from Derek’s spit or her own overwhelming lust.

“For fuck’s sake, Derek, I can’t—” She doesn’t know what she’s trying to say, but Derek seems to understand. She pulls away from Stiles, her lips flush and wet, licking them like she’s tasted something delightful. She tears her own shirt off with such gusto that Stiles hears seams rip, and, oh, fuck, Derek’s not wearing a bra. Stiles’s brain fizzles out for a moment, and then the next moment she’s being dragged off her computer chair and thrown onto her own bed. Derek divests Stiles of her pants and underwear so quickly she doesn’t even recall helping her by lifting her ass off the bed, but, well, now she’s lying on the bed wearing nothing but a plain white bra.

“Still too much clothes,” Derek tells her, standing over her like the douche of an Alpha she is, not touching her at all. Derek’s pupils are rimmed with a thin ring of red, yet all Stiles can feel is a slight self-consciousness about how very naked she is. It’s not like Derek could shred Stiles to pieces with the flick of her wrist or anything. Actually, if she’s honest—Stiles trusts her. With her life. Derek _has_ saved it countless times. The thought of those fangs sharpening as her mouth explores Stiles’s body only makes her shiver with want.

“You’re one to talk,” Stiles says. Derek ignores the hint in favour of falling on top of Stiles and manhandling her so her bra is somewhere on the floor instead. In seconds she’s laving Stiles’s nipple with her tongue, sucking it till it’s tight and hard and Stiles is trembling. Stiles is half-convinced she’s going to come from the tingling, electric thrills of Derek’s tongue alone. Derek does it again, to the other one, and there are tears forming in Stiles’s eyes. Stiles is so wet she can already tell she’ll need to wash her bedding tomorrow. “Derek, please, just, you’re killing me,” she says, all in one breath.

She can’t stand the way Derek’s hair is messy from Stiles’s hands, the way her eyes are still red, her lip wet—tantalizingly so. She wants that mouth all over her all the time. Derek stops, for a long moment, hands on either side of Stiles’s head, for the mere sake of _looking_ at Stiles. There’s something resembling a smile there. Something warm. Something that roots itself in Stiles’s chest and squeezes. Derek kisses her, and it is chaste, and sweeter than any of the kisses before.

“I wouldn’t want to kill you,” she murmurs, against Stiles’s jaw, before she slides with such grace down the length of Stiles’s body that there is no mistaking her for something supernatural. Derek lowers herself to the floor, tugging Stiles down the mattress by her legs so they’re dangling over Derek’s shoulders. And then Derek is kissing up Stiles’s thighs, higher and closer to where Stiles needs her to be. “I _am_ doing this to protect you,” Derek says, smiling, voice sparkling, her breath on Stiles’s cunt drawing a high whine from Stiles’s throat.

Stiles actually sobs once Derek’s mouth is on her. Stiles is positive she’s going to come embarrassingly fast, the situation growing direr by the second when Derek presses her legs open wider and licks into her. Laps at her clit with the flat of her tongue. Stiles moans, high and stilted with each flick of Derek’s tongue. Her hands are fisted in the sheets until she remembers the noises Derek made when she pulled her hair, so she grabs at it, instead, tangling it in her fingers, and Derek hums against her cunt.

“Fuck, Derek, fuck,” she cries, hips twitching up towards Derek’s hot, ruthless mouth. Derek’s teeth are elongated, she knows, because her eyes are red, never leaving Stiles’s face, but Derek doesn’t hurt her, not once, even though she is obviously affected by Stiles. Stiles has to shut her eyes, because it’s too much. Derek is always too much. She delves deeper into her cunt, licking harder, faster, as if she can hear the rise of Stiles’s heartbeat, the rise of her need. It takes only a few more silent thrusts up towards Derek before Stiles is coming, hips rising off the bed, body awash in shivery pleasure. Derek follows the erratic thrusts of her hips and keeps kissing her cunt until Stiles has to squeeze her thighs together and tug at Derek’s hair to pull her away.

With a low noise, like a growl, Derek trails her way up Stiles’s body, biting Stiles’s stomach and chest where she’s still tender in her post-orgasm haze. Stiles is panting, chest heaving, when Derek finally kisses her, mouth wet and salty and better than anything Stiles has ever tasted. They lick into each other’s mouths with such thoroughness that it’s like it’s been too long since they’ve last kissed, which is of course a huge lie. Stiles feels like Derek’s mouth has touched every part of her.

Stiles can’t help noticing that, the more they kiss, the more Derek grinds down into her lap, still wearing her stupid tight jeans. Stiles also realizes, to her horror, that she hasn’t even laid her hands on Derek’s perfect breasts. She is totally allowed to do that now, isn’t she? So Stiles does, pinching the nipples between two fingers. She’s immediately glad she did, because Derek gives a soft grunt and arches into her, sucking Stiles’s lower lip between her teeth.

“Come on,” Stiles says, once they’ve parted, her hands fumbling lower to unbutton and unzip Derek. Derek is clearly as frustrated by the concept of pants as Stiles is. She gets up for a moment to strip them off, snagging off her shoes and underwear in the process, and then shoves Stiles higher onto the bed and devours her mouth again, straddling her lap.

It is, more than anything, further invitation to touch Derek. Stiles reverently strokes a hand across Derek’s breast, midriff, and down. She slips her middle finger into the soaking heat of Derek’s cunt, and Derek moans and bucks into her like she’s been waiting ages to have Stiles inside of her. Fuck, maybe she has. It had never occurred to Stiles except in her wildest dreams that someone as unattainable as Derek might, in fact, be hers to take.

Stiles adds a second finger, fucking into Derek, trying to match each thrust with the desperate rise and fall of Derek’s hips. She collapses across Stiles then, hands on either side of her head. It’s better permission than any for Stiles to suck one of Derek’s pink nipples into her mouth, circling it with the tip of her tongue.

“Stiles,” Derek gasps, into the space above Stiles’s ear. It’s so hot, so intimate, that a fresh spike of arousal hits Stiles in the gut. “Harder,” Derek says, and Stiles moans, and fucks her harder. Derek leans down and tugs Stiles’s face away from her nipple and kisses her again, open-mouthed and filthy.

It’s glorious when Derek comes. Her whole body stiffens, mouth panting hot into Stiles’s, and her cunt pulses around Stiles’s fingers. Once she’s finished grinding down into Stiles she kisses Stiles till she’s dizzy.

When Stiles expects Derek to roll over and be done with her she surprises her, not for the first time tonight, by staying sprawled on top of her and kissing her, and kissing her, until Stiles’s jaw is sore.

Eventually she does part from Stiles, and Stiles has a sudden twinge of anxiety at the loss of her.

“Hey, Derek, your scent will go away eventually, right?” She asks, pathetically, before Derek has a chance to get up and leave. When Derek just blinks long eyelashes at her Stiles presses, “I mean, so—so you might have to do that all the time.”

Derek laughs. The asshole _laughs_. Then she rolls onto her side and lays an arm across Stiles’s chest, lazily rubbing the skin underneath Stiles’s nipple. She doesn’t say anything in response, which only serves to make Stiles even more anxious, and more excited.

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, uncharacteristically gentle.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“It was about more than scent marking. I figured that went without saying.”

“Oh. Then I really do get kissing and sex all the time?”

“Yes, Stiles.” Stiles can practically hear Derek rolling her eyes, but she can hear the smile, too, and she turns her head for the mere sake of witnessing it. Derek smiling is the best thing.

They lay like that for a while, in the dim lamplight, breeze from the open window drying the sweat and spit on their skin. Derek strokes patterns into Stiles’s chest with her slightly calloused fingers, one leg thrown over Stiles’s. Stiles shuts her eyes and listens to Derek breathe. Stiles has fallen into a doze when Derek surprises her by being the first to break the silence.

“I don’t guarantee that Scott won’t make fun of you for smelling like me, though. Just so you know.”

Stiles opens her eyes and shoots Derek a withering look.

“I guess I’ll have to punch you in the face, then,” Stiles says.

She turns over and kisses Derek, long and hard, instead, because maybe it’s not so dangerous to want to.


End file.
